Eavesdropper
by owlcroft
Summary: The judge overhears Doctor Friedman say McCormick is going to die. The doctor then gives him a prescription to ease him through the aftermath.


Disclaimer: The characters in this story were created by someone else, and, for that matter, the plot was suggested by someone on the forum; but I don't hear _them_ complaining about infringement!

EAVESDROPPER

by

Owlcroft

_Dammit. If the kid would just wear gloves when he's doing the garden, he wouldn't have cut his hand in the first place. _Milton Hardcastle grumbled mentally as he parked at the medical building where Charlie Friedman had his offices. _Then the damn cut would've healed the first time and he wouldn't need a refill of antibiotics. Stupid kid. Doesn't listen to me. Don't I have enough to do without picking up his damn prescriptions? Bet he hasn't got those azaleas weeded **yet**._

He spied a water fountain just before the corner where Charlie's nurse had her desk and stopped for a quick slurp. Just as he finished drinking and straightened up, he heard Charlie's voice.

"Are these the McCormick results?"

Hardcastle wiped water from his chin and opened his mouth to greet his friend, but was frozen by the next words he heard.

"No more than I expected. It looks like he won't make it past Thanksgiving. Poor guy."

The judge stood frozen for a few seconds, then finally forced himself to move and turned the corner to see Nurse Evans alone at her desk.

"Charlie . . . I heard him . . . I gotta talk to him," stammered the judge.

Nurse Evans looked at him sympathetically. "I'm sorry. You just missed him. He's in with a patient now." She checked the paper on her desk. "Did you want to wait? He should be out in about twenty minutes."

Hardcastle gathered himself and thought as well as he could with the panic that was threatening to overwhelm him. "Ah, no. No. He couldn't talk to me about it anyway. Medical confidentiality. No. No, thanks."

The retired judge turned and made his way slowly down the hallway to the parking lot. There, he sat in his truck for nearly a half hour before driving to Laguna Beach. He walked on the beach for a long time before heading home.

ooooo

"Hey! Where've you been? You missed lunch. You wanna eat, you gotta be here on time!" McCormick went on weeding the azaleas without looking closely at the other man.

Judge Hardcastle tried to speak, then cleared his throat and started over. "You don't need to be doing that. Not with a bad hand. It can wait for a few days."

Mark McCormick sat back on his heels beside the flower bed at the side of the main house. "Where were you, in a _bar_ or something? Last night, it was 'McCormick, those azaleas are gonna be choked to death by criminal weeds' and now it's 'wait a few days, everything's fine'. What gives, Judge?"

"Nothing." Hardcastle shrugged casually. "I just thought maybe your hand would heal faster if you gave it a rest for a while. That's all." He looked out over the ocean. "Beautiful afternoon. You wanna go for a drive or something?"

McCormick looked up at him from under the bill of his white hat. "Are you okay?"

"Sure I'm okay. Why wouldn't I be okay? I just thought maybe we should enjoy the day, that's all. Why do you think something's gotta be wrong if I say we should take the afternoon off? It's not such a big deal, ya know."

Mark stood slowly and looked the judge right in the eye. "You wanna tell me what the problem is before I have to get tough with you?"

"Come on," Hardcastle tried to laugh. "There's no problem." He paused for a moment, not looking at the younger man. "At least, _I _don't have a problem. Maybe, if _you _do . . . I mean, if there's something you wanted to tell me . . . or something that you were, I dunno, _concerned _about . . ."

"What I'm _concerned _about is you," said McCormick seriously.

"Well, don't be!" said the judge angrily. "At a time like this, you're not supposed to be worried about _me_! You should be thinking about _yourself_ . . . unless . . . oh, my God. Unless you don't _know_." His face suddenly sagged with despair.

At this point, McCormick took the judge by the arm and led him to the patio next to the pool. "Sit," he said sternly, pointing at a chair next to the glass-topped table. "Now,_ what_ is going on?"

Hardcastle rubbed wearily at his face. "You really don't know? You haven't talked to Charlie about anything recently?" He looked at the younger man with absolute despondency in his eyes.

"No. Not since he looked at my hand," McCormick said apprehensively. "Why? Have _you_ talked to him about anything?"

"No," sighed the judge. "But I heard him say something this morning when I was there. I was around the corner and he didn't see me. Oh, kid. I can't do this." He closed his eyes and clutched at the arms of his chair.

"Do what?" Now Mark was beginning to be truly afraid. Judge Hardcastle didn't react like this. He could handle anything! "What, Judge? Come on, you're scaring me here."

Hardcastle stood abruptly and went to stand next to the pool.

McCormick joined him silently and forced himself to wait.

"I heard," muttered the judge huskily, "him say something about some test results. He said your name and then said . . . you wouldn't make it past Thanksgiving."

"_What!_" Mark gaped at him for a moment. "He said . . . he said I was gonna _die_?"

The judge couldn't speak.

McCormick turned away from him, toward the ocean. "I can't believe this. I mean, I cannot believe . . ." He turned suddenly back to Hardcastle. "I _do not_ believe this. There's no way we're going through this again! Last time it was you. That was bad enough, but for _you_ to have to go through _this_. No. No way. It's not true."

"I'm sorry, kiddo." The judge's voice broke on the last word and he coughed hastily. "I need," he said softly, "for you to hang on, 'cause I don't think I can keep it together for _both_ of us right now."

"Oh, no." McCormick shook his head emphatically. "Huh-uh. Come on. We're going to see Charlie right now. I absolutely _will not _put you through this. You hear me? Come on."

He grabbed Hardcastle's arm and tugged him to the front of the house.

"Get in," Mark said as he climbed into the Coyote. "Come on, move it!"

The entire trip took only twelve minutes. The judge sat in the passenger seat the whole way, shading his eyes with his hand, even though the sun was on the driver's side.

McCormick was out of the Coyote as soon as the engine had stopped. He paused to look back and saw that the judge was just pushing the door open. Mark hesitated then went back to help Hardcastle out of the passenger seat. To his surprise, the judge accepted his arm and used it to pull himself out of the car. It said more than any words could have about the judge's state of mind and Mark felt a sudden surge of pity that led to anger.

When the judge straightened up, however, he looked at McCormick with something akin to defiance. He pushed down the door of the Coyote and said emphatically, "No matter what, kiddo, I'm with you the whole way. I'll be right there next to you. Don't forget that."

"I know. But we're not giving up yet." McCormick quirked his lips into a semi-smile and led the way into through the automatic doors.

At the nurses' desk, Mark asked to see Doctor Friedman immediately.

"I'm sorry," said the same nurse who'd been on duty earlier. "Doctor's in with a patient and he's booked solid until six o'clock."

"I understand that," McCormick leaned closer to her. "But my friend here is having an attack of some kind and I think it's a medical emergency. So if you could just get Charlie out here _right now_ it would save us all a lot of trouble and noise and unpleasant commotion, okay?"

He stood up and starting eyeing the closed doors to the side of the waiting area. "In fact, I'll just look for him--"

"No!" Nurse Evans pushed down a button on her console and spoke quickly, "Doctor Friedman, Mr. Hardcastle is here and he's apparently in some medical distress. Should I page an orderly?"

Charlie poked his head out of the second door along and said, "_Milt_?"

"Ah, Charlie, I'm not really--"

"Yes, he is," broke in McCormick. "He's having an extreme anxiety attack and we need to talk to you _now_."

Doctor Friedman sighed, then spoke over his shoulder, "Mrs. Harmon, you can get dressed now and I'll be back in about five minutes."

He glared at the two men in the lobby and waved them ahead of him into his office.

"Now what?" he said, settling behind his desk. "Isn't it enough that I actually make house calls for you two? Now you have to come into my office--"

Mark stopped him by blurting out, "Am I gonna die?"

Charlie was clearly taken aback by the question, but answered it mildly enough. "Of course."

Hardcastle dropped heavily into a chair and closed his eyes.

Mark shook his head. "No, I mean right now. Or in a couple of months."

"I sincerely hope not, pain in the elbow though you may be." Friedman looked at the judge curiously. "Of course, if you step in front of a bus . . . or a bullet . . . but as far as _I _know, you're perfectly healthy. Milt, is this some kind of bizarre joke?"

The judge opened his eyes and took a ragged breath. "You mean he's okay? There's nothing wrong with him?"

"Now _there's _a straight line!" Doctor Friedman rested his arms on his desk and stared directly at Hardcastle. "Mark should live 'til he's old and crabby, just like somebody else in this office. Is that good enough for you?"

As the judge nodded, Charlie demanded, "Then why the hell are you two here raising Cain in my office? What, in the name of all that's holy, led you to believe Mark was dying?"

McCormick took over since Hardcastle was still a little shaken. "When he came to pick up my prescription, he overheard you say something about me not living past Thanksgiving."

"Oh, for Pete's sweet sake! Milt! I was talking about Paul McCormick, who is 94 years old and dying of lung cancer. Not _your_ McCormick!" The doctor put his head in his hands for a moment, then looked up again. "Where were you? How did you overhear that?"

"Just got a drink of water," muttered Hardcastle. "Didn't mean to eavesdrop. But then I heard that name, and . . . I guess I figured . . ."

"I guess you did." Friedman glanced at McCormick, who'd been unusually reticent the entire visit. "Take him home and . . . wait a minute." He scribbled quickly on a prescription pad, then said, "Give him this once a day for three days. If the symptoms aren't gone by then, bring him back and we'll try something stronger." He looked directly at Mark. "And take a dose or two yourself. Now, please, go away!"

Mark stopped at the desk to apologize to the nurse, who was gracious enough to forgive him and to remind him that the judge had forgotten the refill order after all.

McCormick caught up with Hardcastle at the Coyote. Neither man said anything until they were out of the parking lot.

"You okay?" asked McCormick.

"Me? Yeah." There was a pause, then the judge added, "I feel like an idiot."

There was another pause in the budding conversation.

Hardcastle said, "You're supposed to say something like, 'well, that's 'cause you _are_ an idiot'."

"No, I don't think you're an idiot." Mark glanced over at him. "I think you've had a really bad time today and you were upset, but it was just a misunderstanding. No harm done. I've gotta stop at the drug store."

"Yeah, yeah." The judge brooded silently.

"I tell you what," said McCormick. "If something really bad, or serious, or terrible ever happens to me, I'll fight it like hell so you don't have to go through this again, okay? I can't promise never to die on you, but I'll do my best not to." He looked over at the judge again. "You gotta promise me the same thing, though. Is it a deal?"

Hardcastle sighed deeply. "Yeah. That's a deal."

"Good. Now, take a look at this prescription." He pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it over.

The judge read it aloud. "Take one jug sangria, one hunk cheese, and one bowl cashews. Repeat every afternoon times three days."

"Sounds like medical science has made real progress since the old days of castor oil and ipecac," said McCormick with a grin as he pulled into the drug store parking lot.

"Yeah, we owe Charlie a real good meal for acting like a coupla nut-cases back there."

"Yeah, we do. Maybe I went a little overboard," Mark admitted, "but I was worried about you."

"Huh. Well, I guess you're not an idiot either," said Hardcastle obscurely. "Let's get these prescriptions filled."

finis


End file.
